


Secrets

by sonshineandshowers



Series: relations [2]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Disorder, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:00:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22824481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: The team investigates a series of murders where a chess piece is left behind as a calling card while they navigate the challenges of balancing their lives at the same time.Continuation of /frɛnd/: that can be read standalone.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Dani Powell, Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright & Edrisa Tanaka, Malcolm Bright & JT Tarmel, Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright/Dani Powell
Series: relations [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640806
Comments: 16
Kudos: 83





	Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> wherein work and life are so intricately tied, they're bound to smother

####  **One.**

* * *

Investigation was easier when rain didn't hide the evidence. By the time the police were called, Edrisa estimated the victim, Kyle Edwards, had been outside eight to twelve hours washing in the cold downpour. Half a day of clues lost, yet a black pawn remained standing.

Planted in the middle of his forehead, it was a stark contrast to his bloodied skin. Laid in repose, blood marked his shirt, trousers, and vest. “He was moved,” Edrisa confirmed. She worked under a pop-up enclosure, talking through to the team clustered outside.

Dani’s arms wrapped around herself, protecting her from something unseen. The umbrella stem nearly leaned on her forehead. Perhaps if she pressed it into her skull, she could keep trudging forward.

“Are we going to keep standing out here for fun?” JT asked, hiding under an umbrella of his own. Experience told him Edrisa's team was going to need hours in the lab to try to find anything useful, if they even could. They didn’t need to turn into their best impressions of popsicles in the meantime.

Malcolm sipped his tea. “I want the chess piece.”

“Of course you do,” JT grumbled. His eyes drifted next door to the construction site, droplets pattering against the exposed beams and concrete. Would the dumpsters fill before they got out of there? Would the runoff turn into a stream?

“Need to finish a few more photos, and it’s all yours,” Edrisa shared, smiling at Malcolm. “Well, after we analyze it, that is.”

“If the killer’s leaving a calling card, it’s one of the most important things here. And probably the only one that survived,” Gil justified the wait, though he couldn’t debate the temperature and conditions left much to be desired.

“Doesn’t usually help solve the crime,” JT countered. Got them notoriety with a splashy pseudonym in the papers, yet likely wouldn’t dial a real name. Great evidence once they got to one, yet they had a long ways to go.

“But might be the link to help get into his mind,” Malcolm explained. So far he knew the killer had started a conversation with the police, and the token might hold additional evidence.

They stood, rain pattering against their umbrellas, a dampened team counting the moments until they could go inside.

* * *

Interviewing first on scene pulled JT and Dani away while Malcolm got acquainted with the chess piece. A bulbous head, collar, and thick base tapered up to the neck made up the standard pawn. In felted wood, it was more expensive than a plastic department store set, yet not by much. Thousands of people could have owned it.

There wasn’t any engraving, no hidden message under the felt. No trace beyond the victim’s blood. Just a black piece left behind, now trapped within an evidence bag. So their killer liked to get his hands dirty and marked with a dead pawn. How…uninteresting.

He sighed and returned the bag to evidence, seeking a few minutes away. The victim deserved better than meh; he needed to get his head on straight.

* * *

The stairwell hid many secrets: arguments over handling scenes, exhales tinged with more alcohol than air, one-sided conversations with the world beyond the precinct. Swallowed evidence of failure, misery, and indiscretion, only footfalls left in its wake.

She sat in the shadows underneath the landing, folded in on herself. There weren't any more Mississippi's she could tally - the levy had broken and surrounded her in the flood.

"Dani?" a voice called from the bottom of the stairs. Looking for escape from the chess piece taunting him found Dani wasn't still with JT debriefing in Gil's office like he had thought. Not seeing movement, he continued, "Can I help?" 

Secrets, like the two of them had had sex more than a few times. Not so much something they were hiding, but something that was theirs, carved from hours they spared from the dwindling in between. Time they struggled to stretch when work called time and again.

"I need to get home, Bright." Her voice was weary, threaded with pain entwining her nerves.  
  
He stayed at the stairs, apprehensive of making things worse. "I can call a car."

For a few moments, only air passed between the two. "I don't know if I can move."

That had him crossing to her and crouching in front of her. He rolled his thumb repeatedly over his fingers, unsure if she would welcome touching her knee. "Strong arms. Will help. Car?”

“Yeah.” She resigned that he was her only way out, kicking herself again for lacking proper planning.

“Is it your head? Migraine?” he deduced, keeping his voice soft and comforting.

“Yeah.”

He called for Adolpho and brought his attention back to Dani. “Five, ten minutes. Is there anything you need from here to take home with you?"

“Jacket.” Wallet, keys - everything was in there.

“I’ll be right back.” He hustled up the stairs, eager to get her things and return to her side.

* * *

Arm wrapped around her waist to help her balance, Malcolm led Dani slowly up the half-flight of stairs and outside. They barely cleared the door when pain flared with her pulse and she lost the battle, doubling over and spewing onto the blacktop. She wiped sweat from her face and continued moving, just wanting to get to the car.

Malcolm was convinced carrying her would have been easier. Between clutching her head and hunching over, cradling her stomach, he was the only thing keeping her upright. Holding an umbrella over them, he guided her to the car, where Adolpho waited with the door open.

She sat on the seat, legs dangling out, her head approaching her knees again. “Water,” he said, pressing a bottle into her hand. She took a swig, sloshed it, and spit it on the ground.

On each breath, she chided herself not to be sick again, seeking a grip over the waves through her frame, yet they crashed through her fingers. She stayed halved the whole drive to her apartment, Malcolm sitting beside her, trying to figure out if she’d swat him if he suggested carrying her inside.

* * *

Dani was out of the car before he could ask. Around to his side when she stopped, bending over sick again.

“You’re two for two not hitting my shoes,” he teased. Maybe a little humor could get her color above ashen.

She wiped her mouth. “No jokes.” Now was not the time to be cute, and fun, and all things Bright she couldn’t handle while trying not to puke. Thankfully now that she had, once her stomach settled, she probably wouldn’t again.

“At least the rain will wash away the evidence real fast,” he reached for some favorable aspect in the situation. It was likely no one at the precinct knew she was sick, something he wished he could achieve as easily.

She ignored him, accepting his arm around her waist to climb the three flights of stairs to her apartment. “Headed into the secret lair,” he said at the door, noting his first time inside.

“What did I say about jokes?” she groaned.

Relieved to be home, she left him at the door, getting some things from her bedroom and disappearing into the bathroom.

* * *

The whole apartment was a little bit larger than his bedroom - 450 square feet, maybe? They had entered into a small living area with kitchen, couch, and TV. Birch flooring lay under his feet, with matching light cabinets in the kitchen. Only three sets of cabinet doors wide, the kitchen had a small island across from it with two stools at it and a smattering of red and yellow paint on the base. The couch lay grey, taking up one wall of the rest of the living space. A small collection of paintings took up residence behind it.

A shopping list sat partially scrawled on the fridge. Half a dozen photos were clipped on with magnets. Friends? Family? An appointment card for the dentist.

A water bottle rested on her countertop, a tub of electrolyte mix beside it. An electric kettle. Tin of teas. A few bananas. A box of clementines. A half-eaten package of crackers. Pill bottles: suma-trip-tan - sumatriptan succinate, ibuprofen, multi-vitamins.

A few gift cards on the wood table in front of the couch. Red pillows living in each corner. A black and grey flannel throw twisted in the middle, misshapen from when Dani had been inside. Games stacked in the cabinet under the TV.

Where did the paintings come from? Did she know the artists? One had an abstract depiction of rain, each drop falling into a man’s face. Another an explosion of color dancing across a series of frames. A few minimalist typography prints. A tall work of cityscapes proclaimed _still I rise_.

At the end of the room lay the doorway to her bedroom. He could see a green bedspread, the top of a green and black flannel blanket, and a dark lamp resting on a wood night table. The covers were half pulled back, begging for her to return to bed.

He looked to the bathroom separating the two rooms. She'd been inside kind of a long time. Was she okay?

Knock. Knock. “Dani?”

“Do _not_ come in here,” she warned in a tone reserved for suspects trying her patience.

“I wasn’t going to.” He put his hands in his pockets, fiddling with change. “Are you - “

“I’m dying, that’s how I’m talking to you,” she huffed.

“Okay.” He leaned his forehead against the door, not knowing what would be helpful.

Normally, she dealt with this shit _alone_. Had a few pills stashed in her pocket rather than waiting at her apartment. Was a responsible enough human to get herself home before she turned into a rigid heap, locked up until medicine could dim the pain and she became malleable again.

Normally, she didn’t have an audience piecing apart her entire place with his eyes. Didn’t let anyone close enough to fret. Didn’t need to rely on someone else for comfort.

But every fluid seemingly evacuating her body, some piece of her wanted it. “Can you make me a heat pack?” her quiet request followed.

“Sure.” And he stepped away, going back to exploring the living space.

* * *

Where did one store a heat pack? He checked the countertop, opened the kitchen cabinets, the drawers, but didn’t see what he was looking for. In the back of the island cabinet he remembered spotting a mason jar. Deciding to go for an improvised version of a heat pack, he filled and started the electric kettle and pulled a dishtowel out of the drawer.

When she emerged from the bathroom in sweats, she went straight into bed. Malcolm wrapped the scorching mason jar in the dishtowel and followed her. “It’s not exactly what you asked for,” he admitted, setting the bundle beside her on the bed, “but I think it’ll do the trick.”

She smirked and pulled the offering against her stomach. “Thank you.” She curled around the warmth. “The other one might be in the freezer. This is good.”

“Do you need your meds from the counter?” he asked, revealing some of his searching.

“Have another bottle right here.” She pointed at the nightstand. "Already took 'em."

“Anything else I can get you?” He looked at his feet, again at a loss for how to continue.

“No.” All that was left to do was wait. “Can you hug me for a few minutes?”

He climbed on top of the covers behind her and put his hands on top of hers. Sandalwood from his aftershave slid to her nose, warmth crawled into her back through his suit. Curled together, blocking out everything else - she wanted this.

Keeping him any longer was selfish. “Okay, go back to work,” she instructed.

“But - “

“I’m sure you’ve already investigated my apartment enough,” she teased. “I’m just gonna sleep. Go figure out who bludgeoned our guy."

Not quite what he wanted to do when she wasn’t well, but he would follow her lead. “Okay. Text me if you need anything.”

He squeezed her shoulder, kissed her neck, and left. When the door closed behind him, she groaned, realizing she needed to get up to lock it and text Gil that she’d left for the day.

* * *

Malcolm no sooner stepped back into the precinct when Gil was pushing him out of it. “Now that Dani’s out, you’re going with JT to do interviews,” Gil instructed, his hand between Malcolm’s shoulders.

Malcolm squirmed off the hand and complained, “I’m not done with the pawn.”

“That wasn’t a request.” Gil dropped him at the entrance with JT, needing to ensure the package reached its destination. “Just pitch in for the afternoon.”

“She’ll be in tomorrow; then you can go back to geeking out,” JT assured. “Let’s go.”

Their response to her migraine seemed so…familiar. How did they know and he didn’t? His unwelcome thoughts smacked him in the face: _they’ve worked together for years_ , and for extra measure, _idiot_.

“Let’s _go_ ,” JT called when he didn’t move, wanting to get another trip out in the rain over with.

* * *

Edwards’ calendar was filled with places to go, yet no people to see. Descriptions of friends were nonexistent. If someone asked about him, who would they get: Gil, Dani, JT? It was two more people than he’d had in Quantico.

Edwards spent his days in the investment firm, at the gym, and at home, like clockwork. The routine drew him in, as comfortable as analyzing the volatile numbers on his computer screen. Structure brought order to a world mired in chaos.

If his interactions were so few and far between, who had gotten angry enough to want him dead? Malcolm traversed the decision tree, weighing and discounting possibilities of randomness, haste, ideology.

“I can see the steam,” JT commented from the driver’s seat. They had already talked to coworkers, the gym owner, his landlord - where were they going next?

Malcolm waved him off and continued to analyze the possibilities swirling in his head.

* * *

####  **Two.**

* * *

Malcom woke pounding his hand with a hammer, his fingers clasped around the handle so tight, he couldn’t let go. Clear eyes looked at his lap, one hand clenched in a tight fist, the other wrapped over top of it. Was he stopping or continuing the damage? He freed himself from the cuffs and ambled to the kitchen for a glass of water.

The fridge wasn't going to fill itself. He didn't bother with a list, didn't even know what day he'd be able to stomach going to the grocery store, never mind what he would buy there.

Mother would send Adolpho, making him pick an array of things to waste away, withering before his eyes when he had no urge to cook them. Online grocery services required initiative, an inkling of taste for what he wanted, yet he was want for nothing.

All the money couldn't buy him comfort to eat.

Despite Gil’s and JT’s reassurances, he wasn’t sure he would see Dani at work, but there she was, sitting at her desk working on a report. Focused on the papers in front of her, pecking at the keys, color in her cheeks, she looked like typical...Dani.

“You good?” he asked, setting a tea on her desk.

“Yep. Thanks.” She took a sip. "Where's yours?"

"Later."

“Have fun with your chess piece.” She tipped her drink toward the conference room.

* * *

The antique shop was difficult to navigate, stacks of furniture and trinkets taking every space from floor to ceiling. A winding cowpath stretched from the entrance and doubled back in the rear, forcing patrons on a journey through everything from fine china to great-grandma’s knickknacks. Along one wall, the owner left them at vast cases of weaponry.

“You should’ve brought Bright with you to do this,” Dani surmised, looking through the glass.

“He was out with me earlier in the week, and all he could talk about was that damn chess piece,” JT shared. He was pretty sure he now knew every possible variant of pawn he never contemplated understanding.

“All he’d talk about here is what year this boomstick was made.” She smiled, pointing to a mace.

JT laughed. Weapons connoisseur, she was not. “That is not a shotgun.”

She pushed his shoulder. “No shit, but - “

“It’s a 16th century German mace. Replica, likely.” He took in the flanged head designed to decimate armor, imagining what the weighted shaft would feel like swinging in his hands.

“Exactly why Bright should be here.” She smirked. 

He kept perusing the cases, a fracas of arms pointed from every age. “Shapes are wrong - none of these have a round head. We can wait on the owner to come back with records, but place like this, odds are slim.”

They knew Edwards had purchased there from a handwritten receipt, but they didn’t know what, only a grand total scribbled on it. Edrisa had narrowed the murder weapon to a rounded blunt object - mace or a club - judging by the impact. Edwards’ interest in antique weaponry was apparent from his bookshelves, yet they hadn’t found any in his home. They hadn’t found evidence of a scuffle either, making it unlikely that was the primary location.

Dani’s phone buzzed in her pocket. “Gil says when we finish up, meet them at another scene. Second victim.”

* * *

Gil pressed a tea into Malcolm’s hand when he arrived at the scene. He'd tipped ginger with lemon, foregoing any caffeine. "Any chess pieces?" Malcolm asked.

"Another pawn," Gil confirmed, leading him around back to the fire escape.

"Not very interesting."

"Sorry this murder doesn't peak the meter for you." He shook his head. Malcolm’s smiles for the grisliest of crimes were inappropriate, yet somehow the lack of one now was off-putting.

The victim, Frank Garcia, was sprawled on the landing of the fire escape one story up. ESU had raised a ladder to access it. "Why didn't you climb from inside?" Malcolm asked the more practical solution.

"It's a mess. Escape isn't sturdy on the third floor, so had to call for the safest way in,” Gil explained. Looking down the threat of rain, reaching the victim had taken them longer than they wanted.

"A mess?" Malcolm questioned.

"Entrance and egress from that window." He pointed at the second story. "Killer repeatedly smashed the victim’s head against the sill inside."

Malcolm handed his tea back to Gil and started up the ladder. "Bright, you can wait until Edrisa brings the vic down," Gil chided. He imagined him falling, adding to his paperwork.

He kept climbing the ladder, joining Edrisa and one of her techs on the fire escape, barely managing to fit without contaminating the scene. “Mr. Bright!” she greeted. “Looks like our pawn got a bit overextended.”

On close-up inspection, he noted their victim not only had blunt force trauma; that injury had also led to internal decapitation.

"Pawn is black just like the last one." She held an evidence bag out to him. His face turned toward the ground, measured breaths coming between his lips. "Mr. Bright, you're looking a little green."

Secrets, like this wasn’t his first time getting sick at a scene.

He lumbered back down the ladder and ran for the street, needing to get outside of the tape. A knife twisted in his stomach, spilling it onto the concrete.

"If I didn't know better, I'd call you a rookie,” Gil’s voice came from a few sidewalk spaces down. Certainly behaved like one most of the time.

Malcolm wiped his mouth and stepped away, the taste of acid still trapped inside.

"This tea doesn't usually bother you,” Gil noted. The same tea he’d been bringing him the past couple weeks.

"Maybe without the lemon." Another food he could go without.

"Okay. Water's in the trunk." Gil let him be, ducking under the tape and returning to the scene.

* * *

Though they could be technical that the apartment and fire escape were two locations, for all intents and purposes, it was one. Garcia lived in the apartment, and it appeared that the killer had failed trying to take him to a secondary location. Blood plastered the windowsill of this scene, making them wonder what the primary location of the first scene had looked like.

“Found this guy faster,” Gil recapped once the whole team had arrived.

“Only been a few hours,” Edrisa confirmed. She’d made it back to the ground and was waiting for her team to bring the victim down.

“Why leave him on the fire escape?” Dani asked. It was exposed, easily viewable just like their last scene. Except this one didn’t have rain keeping people away.

“Maybe he got stuck the same way we did,” Gil suggested.

“Wasn’t it supposed to rain this morning?” JT remembered. They’d had more wet than dry days in the past week.

Edrisa held her hand up at him. “Stop. You can say that _after_ we have him in the van.”

“Doesn’t match the last scene.” Malcolm compared against the images in his head. “This victim was actually killed here. And the weapon was left behind.”

“Little bit hard to take a windowsill with you,” JT muttered.

“Actually, you might be wrong,” Edrisa cut in. “There’s a dent in the back of his head. Straight line gash.”

“Like a war hammer.” Malcolm’s eyes glowed.

“Or it could just be he hit the sill backwards first,” Dani provided the more straightforward answer.

“Can tell you more after we get him outta here.” Edrisa’s team wheeled the victim toward the van. “Gotta go.”

“Are there any weapons inside?” Malcolm asked.

“Not at first look,” Gil relayed. “Go have at it.”

* * *

They didn’t get back into the precinct until late, and Dani offered to take Malcolm home. It gave them a few moments together, so he took her up on it. “Are your headaches always that bad?" he asked. He hadn’t really had the chance to check in.

She shared her attention between him and the road. “Depends. It's hormonal. Between that and cramps, sometimes I get knocked on my ass.” She tipped her head from side to side, calculating. “Couple times a year now.”

He took in the information in silence, nodding his head. 

It seemed forever ago even though it had only been a few days. She wanted to bring him home with her, yet she still needed to make it to the gym and run errands before she could head that way.

“I’ve read massages can help sometimes. On your temple or lower back. I could do that for you next time,” he offered. Any of those things had to be more useful than he had felt that day in her apartment.

“Thanks. Maybe.” It was difficult to know what she wanted when she was in pain.

She stopped in front of his door, idling double-parked. "You wanna come up?" he asked.

"I've gotta go. You should pick a day for that dinner, though." They’d been in each other’s company when they could, yet the promised dish evaded them.

Dinner. Another meal he couldn’t eat. One he’d promised would be nice, yet he couldn’t find taste for anything.

She soothed her fingers through his hair near his ear, her thumb brushing his cheek. “Try to get some sleep.”

He nodded, looking at the center console instead of her. “Nightmares are bothering me.”

“Maybe spend some time in your nice lavender steam and sip a valerian tea,” she suggested. That sure sounded good to her.

“Maybe.” A small smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Goodnight.” He gave her a soft kiss and squeezed her hand before leaving.

* * *

They began collecting in the conference room as each strolled in. JT beat them all, his first cup of coffee already downed before he had a companion.

“No trip to look at antique weapons today,” JT revealed, reviewing the autopsy report. “Gil wants us to start on commonalities first.” Legwork. An awful lot of legwork.

“Dani promised I could go next time,” Malcolm shared eagerly.

“More like she would mutiny if I took her again.” JT smiled. Or she would take him over to the tea sets to try to find a cup that had been lived in. Whatever that meant.

“More fun for us.” Malcolm returned his own grin. Something in common with his other _friend_. The existence of which still surprised him.

“You two look happy,” Dani remarked, sitting on the end of the table.

“Just in time to divvy up all the research we have to do,” JT responded.

* * *

A _gift_. Garcia’s shop mates raved at his ability to bring life back to dead goods. Photos of refrigerators, bikes, cars, a vintage tractor. “Even the new stuff,” a friend added, showing a monitor.

Days filled with repair, restoration. Results the finest hour of yoga couldn’t produce for him. None of the works looked broken. Yet he supposed when he wore his best suits and a smile, he didn’t look broken either.

Garcia talked with _everybody_. “Always looking for how to help,” noted multiple people. Chatter filled his days with joy, a brightness that grew the world around him.

Why did the light go out? Spoke to a menacing person, wrong place, wrong time, snuffed in a riotous rage that took all the oxygen?

Pawn plus pawn equaled doubt.

* * *

Two pawns stood at attention on the conference room table, their evidence bags obscuring the aligned image and trapping them inside. A bowl of ramen still sat next to him, noodles floppy and oversaturated in the fragrant liquid.

"Bright, the only place we can go from here is broth." Dani pulled the neglected bowl away.

“Sorry. Plainer next time?” he suggested. Perhaps it was the Thai basil, or maybe it wasn’t the spices getting in the way.

“Think you could handle a packet of Ring-O-Noodle?” Not her pick to scavenge from the vending machine, but she was running out of options.

“I’ll try?” His voice was skeptical.

"Coming right up,” she said, taking the ramen away with her.

How was he eating at home? He sure was being picky at work. Which was saying something, as she’d sat through several meals of him eating little, yet not this consecutively. She returned with a mug he held between his hands and sat beside him on the table.

"You think he's ever gonna leave anything besides a pawn?" she asked, simultaneously getting an update and staying to see he’d eat.

"His methods are simple. Brutal. Gets his hands dirty in a rage. Can take the pawns at their most literal interpretation." He blew across the top of the mug. "We find the relationship between these men, maybe we find the other pieces." He took a few sips of the soup, swallowing past the noodles. 

"You find any connections between the tattoos?" Fangs and a series of snakes on one man, a lion and heliotrope on the other.

"No. I'm working on their appointments next." Tracing what he could of the victims’ past few weeks, trying to find anything shared.

"I'm going back to phone calls." She stood from the table. "Let me know if I can get you anything else."

Malcolm hustled out of the conference room a bit later, losing his lunch in a stall. The only occupant washed his hands and left him with privacy.

JT stopped by Dani’s desk, looking over it. “He’s pukin’ in the bathroom.”

Whatever he could consistently eat, she hadn’t found it yet.

* * *

####  **Three.**

* * *

Dani had left for her dentist appointment, and they planned to meet up at his place later. Malcolm had found a meal kit online that waited in his refrigerator to prepare her jeweled biryani, dal, and naan. It wasn’t anywhere close to the thoughtful meal she deserved, but at the moment, it was what he could manage. Managing tasted much more like conceding these days.

"Gil, I've gotta go,” Malcolm stopped by Gil’s office, trying to get out of the precinct. He looked at his watch; he had wanted to leave half an hour ago.

"What do you have, a hot date?" Gil teased, taking in his antsy feet.

"You can't give me a hard time for being here _and_ give me a hard time for leaving here,” he talked with his hands. He didn't want to explain, he just wanted to _leave_.

"Of course I can,” he vehemently disagreed. Payback for all the times _call for backup_ and a whole host of other instructions had gone unheeded.

Malcolm’s glare and sigh were borderline petulant child. His arms crossed his chest, reinforcing the image.

"Go finish with JT first," Gil said. "Then you can go home.”

Malcolm stomped away from Gil's office, frustrated he couldn't put his life before work. "I'm gonna be late," he messaged Dani. "I'll text when I'm on the way."

* * *

They wound up in the home of Alfred Winslow, holder of one of the largest private weapons collections in the community. In need of comparators, at Edrisa's recommendation, he had graciously agreed to assist with their inquiry. A butler led them from the entrance up an imperial staircase to a gallery of glass weapons cabinets. “I’ll be in the study.” The butler indicated a doorway beside the stairs. “Find me if you want anything taken out.”

“Thanks,” Malcolm shared.

“Is this the dream?” JT joked, ogling the displays.

“A little much for me.” They would take up his entire living room. Mother would _not_ be pleased. If they blocked all the light, Dani wouldn’t be either.

“A little?” JT laughed. “How many lifetimes of salary is this? Forty, fifty?”

“I couldn’t begin to imagine.” He didn't care how much he made, he just wanted to do his job.

Every type of melee weapon lined the cases. Unlike other collectors who found all types of weaponry appealing, Mr. Winslow had settled on one. His fixation turned into their lifeline.

“I’ve never _seen_ some of these in person,” Malcolm acknowledged in wonderment. If he had to be late for dinner, at least they had gotten to go somewhere cool.

“Anything similar to what may have killed the vics?” JT focused their perusal.

“This whole end case?” Malcolm stood with his back to the top of the stairs, looking at a variety of blunt-ended weapons inside the display.

“I’ll get the keys so we can get closeups for Edrisa,” JT said, stepping into the study.

Malcolm recognized several of the pieces. An 1800s round stone mace. An Ottoman mace. Several iwisa made from different types of wood. A Victorian era waddy. One case among many of weapons that defied politics and time to come together for one _very_ rich collector’s enjoyment.

JT returned from the study to find a man flying down the hallway taking a running swing at Malcolm’s back. “Duck!” he yelled, diving for Malcolm.

JT connected with Malcolm before the morning star did, his tackle taking both of them tumbling down the stairs. They didn’t lose steam until Malcolm made contact with the tile at the bottom, JT rolling off of him. “This is Detective Tarmel with the 1-6. I have a 10-13 - I need an ambulance,” JT called into his cellphone.

JT clasped the uninjured side of Malcolm’s face, trying to keep his head still. “Talk to me, what hurts.”

“Go after him,” Malcolm urged, his eyes staying closed. “I’m not going anywhere.”

JT had his doubts that listening was a good idea, yet he ran back up the stairs, communicating with the officers outside at the same time. “I’ve got a visual,” one of them shouted, “he’s jumping across the roof.”

The _roof_? JT booked it to the window at the end of the hall, yet didn’t see anything beyond streams of light from lamps and signs. His vantage point wasn’t of any help, and within moments, the other officers let him know they’d lost him by the next block somewhere between a rooftop garden and bar. He was nimble, feisty, and gone.

JT cleared the rooms one by one, finding a deceased man in the bedroom. “ _Shit_ ,” he exclaimed, wondering how they’d ended up in the same place as the killer. He called in for CSU and additional assistance, their quest for narrowing a murder weapon now expanded to another victim.

By the time JT got back, Malcolm had propped himself up against the banister. A deep purple shiner caught him from the top of the stairs before he got close enough to see his eyes. "I'm really sorry, bro."

"Dani's gonna kill me." He sighed. Nice dinners did not come with black eyes.

"Huh?"

Secrets, like her somehow putting up with his penchant for getting hurt time after time. "Never mind."

“A few more rooms and we can get EMS in here.” JT squeezed his shoulder and left to finish the search.

"I need to reschedule - still out," he updated Dani in text. Everything creaked when he moved, the collective strain pounding through his head. His fingers fumbled hitting the right keys, autocorrect saving him from spouting what may well have been drunken foolishness.

"Call me when you're headed home,” she responded.

* * *

Gil arrived to Malcolm sitting up on a stretcher, being looked over by the paramedics. It was another in a long line of calls he didn’t need. “You finally say something to get JT to sock you?” his concern crept out in mockery.

“Something like that.” Malcolm looked away. The killer was out there somewhere in the darkness, fleeing.

“What’s the damage?” Gil pulled his attention back.

“Bruises.” A whole hell of a lot of bruises the paramedics were still feeling to test range of motion and confirm his statement that he hadn’t broken anything.

“We’ll debrief when they give you the okay. Then I’ll have JT drop you home.” He’d given up pushing the kid to go to the hospital, saving the fight for when he’d really need it.

“Sure, now you’re in favor.” A nosedive and several hours too late.

“Not tonight, Bright,” he headed off any more complaints at the pass.

At a third death, there was a serial killer in his jurisdiction. His boss wanted suspects, and they were struggling making connections. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Malcolm’s coat and jacket went on the rack inside the door, his keys into the dish, and he sulked into the kitchen. He called Dani from the kitchen floor, leaning against the bar. "Hey you," her soft voice reached out over the phone.

"Hi. I'm sorry it's so late - I just got home,” he apologized.

"No worries. Have you eaten?" She figured she already knew the answer.

"No,” he confirmed her suspicion.

"How about I come make you some dinner?" she offered.

"I'm not really the best company right now,” he confessed, looking at the wood under his feet.

"It's okay,” she reassured. “Just food."

“I can’t eat,” he admitted. But hearing more assurances, he conceded, “Okay. Dani?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you."

* * *

It took all his energy to get off the floor and let her in. "You look like shit." She held his chin, looking over the bruises she could see. "Should you even be here?"

"Gonna pick alive over clobbered.” He weighed the options with his hands.

She swatted him on the shoulder. "That's not what I meant." 

"It's not that bad - might be a concussion. But I don’t think so.“ He sunk back to the floor.

"You didn't go to the hospital,” she noted. Not that he ever did if he could avoid it.

"No."

"Bright!" She was exasperated by how little he would look out for himself.

Her exclamation pierced his head, and he closed his eyes, looking for some place his aches would stop. He tapped his index finger against his knuckle, the movement diverting his attention from the bruises. It wouldn’t last for long, yet he’d take it while it did.

She stepped away, opening the freezer to find nothing except the ice tray. After a few tries at cabinets, she found a gallon zip bag, filled it with ice, and extended it to him. “You should put ice on that."

"Yeah." He took it from her, the plastic too cold on his face. “Towel?”

Another few tries at drawers, and she handed that down as well.

She sunk to the floor with him, leaned him back against her chest, and put her free hand in his hair, massaging his scalp. “How’s that?” she asked.

“Mmm,” came his murmured reply.

“Gonna tell me what happened?” Obviously one of their investigations had gone wrong, but she didn’t know the circumstances. She hadn’t been called back in, so she wondered what they were up to.

“Tomorrow,” he promised.

“You gonna fall asleep on me?" she teased, her lips next to his ear. His limbs were relaxing into the floor, melting before her.

"Better not do that."

She kissed the back of his neck and wrapped her arms around him. His hands rested atop hers, tracing circles on the back of them.

"I can't tell you what this means to me,” he said quietly, emotion deepening his voice. To have someone be there. To have her there. To have her. To -

"I have an idea." She kissed the top of his head and hoped it would be enough to hold him for a while.

* * *

What did the morning star look like coming for him? Could it have been a war hammer, a mace? Where was the killer hiding that his only way out was through him? Could he don a suit of armor and confront the killer?

“Take the knife,” his father taunted, furling Malcolm’s hand around the handle.

“No.” Their killer liked blunt objects he could swing; blades weren’t helping.

Pages flipped before him, displaying the multitude of weapons the killer could choose. “Use the knife.” His father squeezed his hand atop his, pinning the book closed.

“It’s the wrong weapon!” he wrenched away.

He woke with his right arm pulled taught, his feet fallen over the left side of the bed. At least the restraints had held him.

* * *

They had to rush out the door to get to the precinct on time, Dani only waking when Malcolm knocked. He pressed a coffee into her hands that she downed on the drive, completed in silence. She hoped she felt more alive by the time they got there.

"Bro, you look - " JT started.

"Like I got tackled down the stairs?" Malcolm provided.

"I'm really sorry,” JT reiterated. It was the only action he had thought of quickly, and though he’d replayed the scenario since and hadn’t come up with a better one, it didn’t mean JT wasn’t remorseful for the damage he’d done. JT had some bruises; Malcolm was _bruised_.

“It’s fine.” Malcolm waved him off. His apology was more than enough the previous night. Malcolm had tried to thank him, but it was brushed off in a similar style.

"You tackled him?" Dani’s surprise widened her eyes.

"To save his ass from a morning star,” JT defended. If he’d missed, they’d be having a very different conversation. At a funeral. Dibbs on not being the one to call Jessica.

“Next time, lead with that.” Dani shot a look at Malcolm.

Gil entered the conference room, his coffee on continuous drip. "Bright, the paperwork - "

"This wasn't my fault!" Malcolm protested.

Gil’s look of _sure_ echoed his displeasure for the half-completed forms he had to get back to on his computer. Most of the line-of-duty injury forms he’d had to file were due to Bright. His boss was already pushing him to get Bright under control, and another to add to the pile would not help, regardless of fault. He wondered if that’s what Bright’s boss at the FBI had experienced.

“Can we talk through what we recovered?” JT suggested, wanting to bring the team up to speed. After he had dropped Malcolm off, they had spent several more hours at the scene.

Gil nodded. “Edrisa’s on her way over.”

* * *

“Ahoy, Captain Jack,” Edrisa announced from the door. “Mr. Bright! Top of the morning…star to you,” Edrisa greeted cheerily as she entered the conference room.

The room let out a collective groan, but Malcolm replied with equal glee, “Did you recover it from the scene?”

“No. I do suspect it’s the murder weapon that killed this victim, though.” She set her autopsy report open on the table.

“Who is…?” JT asked.

“Jason Thomas,” Edrisa confirmed. His wallet had contained his ID.

“Not the collector,” Malcolm said, more statement than question. They were in Mr. Winslow’s house, yet hadn’t met him. “Away on holiday in Spain,” he had said. 

“His housekeeper,” Edrisa corrected.

“Is there a chess piece?” Another token Malcolm could spend a half day analyzing.

“Same pawn.” She handed Malcolm the evidence bag.

“Time of death?” JT wondered.

“Around when you were there,” Edrisa shared.

“I didn’t hear a thing. Didn’t even hear the guy running at me,” Malcolm revealed. The next thing he’d heard was the dissonant thuds of flesh hitting stairs, culminating to underwater ringing in his ears, his body focused only on sense of pain.

“I didn’t hear anything either,” JT corroborated. One step out of the study and he was thrust in a do or die moment to stop Bright from getting beaned.

“Maybe your arrival interrupted him, and he had to improvise his way out,” Dani suggested. This victim was left at their residence, just like the last. Was that the intended destination?

“That’s all, folks.” Edrisa waved with both her hands. “Up to you now.” She left the team behind.

“The guy is some ninja or something,” JT remarked. “Officers gave chase, but he escaped across the roof.”

“Where’s the weapon?” Dani poked at the missing piece of the puzzle.

“One of the officers spotted what he thinks was a backpack on him,” Gil recounted from their statements.

“Parkour,” Malcolm interjected, his out of left field statement forcing the room to catch up to him. 

“That might make sense,” JT agreed, given how quickly the suspect had fled the scene.

“He’s coming and going the most efficient way possible,” Malcolm explained. “For him, at least.” Not for any of them with two feet firmly on the ground.

“Okay, so the roof, the fire escape - what about the first victim?” Gil retraced the killer’s steps.

“We were right next to a construction site. Were there any chutes?” Dani sought the team’s input. Most of her memories from that day were rain and pain; not much use.

“Yes - to a dumpster,” JT recalled. The construction site’s swimming pool.

“Dani, JT - go up to the site’s roof,” Gil directed.

“Parkour is elegant. Why are his weapon choices so brutal?” Malcolm thought aloud.

“You’re on that, kid,” Gil assigned.

No one moved to leave the conference room. “Let’s go,” Gil pushed. Understanding the team was tired, he added, “Remember, couch in my office is there if you need to take five.”

* * *

Malcolm papered his desk with files and dove back into his profile.

All the victims were single men. They all lived in apartments, Thomas’ version of an apartment within a historic townhome. Edwards and Garcia didn’t have anyone expecting them home. Thomas would have been missed as soon as the next day’s responsibilities arrived.

Edwards worked as a day trader. He had enough disposable income to support a well-stocked bookshelf and gym membership. He had an interest in antique weaponry judging by his books. The coworkers they spoke to described him as isolated, none of them able to share any useful personal details.

Garcia was a repairman. His coworkers at the shop said he had a gift for working with damaged goods, restoring them to their original beauty. His apartment was filled with vintage appliances he had restored himself. He was bubbly - always willing to share a story. 

Thomas kept the home of a distinguished weapons collector. He had access to every melee weapon under the sun, yet they were neatly locked in their cases, maintained respectfully. He had a chess set prominently displayed on his table, “for when we have downtime,” the butler told them. Hand-painted model trains topped the shelves.

“Why did I agree to help you, and my friend ended up dead?” Winslow’s voice haunted him. In his employ, yet also a friend. Teammates and _friends_. He scribbled circles in the corner of his notepad, refocusing his brain again.

None of them showed interest in parkour. Searches of all of their apartments didn’t turn up any weapons. Their lives appeared to cross only in death.

They were all brutally murdered with clubbed weapons. A round-headed mace, war hammer, and morning star, all typically presented behind glass rather than person to person. Why three? Why weren't they recovered at the scene?

A call came through from JT that confirmed they were all killed in one location. Edwards likely on the roof, to be determined from blood trace hidden from rain in the chute, then transferred to the ground. Garcia in his apartment, then relocated to the fire escape. Thomas in his employer's bedroom, yet they didn't know if there was any intent to move. The closest tie they had to the movement was weather.

That’s what the facts told him. He cared that these were people. Someone’s loved ones who would never come home. All he could do was compile a profile that narrowed the field to catch him before the next one.

The killer was taunting them with calling cards, yet hadn’t gone to the press. Planning his locations, yet improvising when the situation called for it. Broiling deep anger expressed with vicious swings of melee weapons - over power, money? Had some sort of fascination with chess. Or at least the story of it.

Malcolm knew where the game ended. The question was whether they could stop more pieces from falling along the way.

* * *

Dani had waited for him and led him to her car, cranking the heat as soon as it got to temperature. His eyes were strained from focusing on the files for hours, and he was stiff from sitting still. _Or all of those things from falling down the stairs_ , his brain reminded him.

"You really didn’t need to take me home,” Malcolm reiterated, feeling like he was exploiting her generosity.

"It's alright. I wanted to." She squeezed his hand on top of the center console. "How about we do that dinner? I can make soup while you go relax."

"I was supposed to make dinner,” he complained. If Gil had let him go home, he would have.

"But it doesn't matter who makes it.” She glanced over at him. He still looked tired even though she’d barely gotten him into bed before he’d passed out the previous night. “Someone didn't tell me he took a header down the stairs. Your body can't feel good right now."

He sighed. “It doesn’t. I think JT played football.”

“He did.” She caught his eye for a bit longer while she stopped at a light. “You were lucky.”

So she told him. He was lucky to have her. He looked down to his hand trembling against the door. Luck - not exactly what he’d call…this.

* * *

She unbuttoned his dress shirt, wanting to see the damage herself. The bruises were angrier where he had met the corners of the stairs, their ire radiating out to pale blues and purples. “Gonna take your whole tube of arnica,” she mentioned, her hand stopping over a particularly dark bruise on his ribs. “Do they sell that in tubs?”

He smirked and shook his head at her teasing. He removed his pants, stepping out of them and into the tub she had prepared with lavender bath salts. By some miracle, he had narrowly avoided the addition of bubble bath. “This is good,” he said, leaning back and resting his head on the side.

She gave him a few soft kisses and wiped sweat from under his good eye. “Can I get you anything else?”

“You?” His big eyes pleaded for her to join him.

“Later. Let me get dinner done first.” She gave him a final kiss and closed the bathroom door behind her to keep in the heat.

* * *

She found the fridge equally bare as the freezer, save the meal kit. _Malcolm_. She sighed, putting her frustration into a hand through her curls. She pulled out the ingredients for dal, assuming it was the only thing she’d have hope of him trying.

She put heat under the lentils on the stove and started back upstairs to change. Secrets, like she didn’t know if she or his stomach was more worried. Like just how little he’d been eating.

* * *

####  **Floor.**

* * *

_Arms and Armor_ lay open on the floor, a variety of spearheads flocking the pages. “You see how sharp that is?” his father held a knife out to him. “We hone the edge just like those spears.”

“I want to make a flail,” Malcolm said, turning to the corresponding page.

“Malcolm, my boy, take the knife,” his father encouraged.

Malcolm kept his eyes on his book, a worn copy the librarian had allowed him to take home after it was replaced with a new version because he had borrowed it so many times. His mother had wanted to buy a new one, yet he wanted _that_ one. “I don’t want to,” his despondent voice replied.

“Come on, boy,” his father commanded, forcing the knife into his hand and squeezing his hand on top, trapping him.

“No - no,” he whimpered, trying to wrench his hand away.

“All we have to do is make a small cut, and then we’re done,” his father’s voice steeped in sugar, yet only begot panic.

“No.” Tears started flowing, his father still guiding his hand forward.

“We drag like this, and it slices the skin.” His father pulled his hand across the ham hock, piercing the flesh. Malcolm cowered, howling into the floor, held up by his father’s hand over his. Then he was free, a small heap curled into his father’s sweater, a rough cloth pressed against his lips.

* * *

Malcolm’s scream echoed through the walls of his empty loft, his head ducking as it rebounded back at him.

He hadn’t woken a single day to Dani in his arms or he in hers. It was one of those things rescinded against his wishes, a grip over his doing the orchestration.

No matter how many cases he helped solve, he couldn’t pull his hand back. He kept being led into the darkness again. Sometimes the hand was Martin’s. Sometimes the hand was his.

He unhooked and threw his cuffs across the room, knocking the lamp off the end of the bureau. He couldn’t even do something as simple as sleep in.

* * *

Researching parkour meetups found them gyms and word of mouth gatherings, but no names. The gyms didn’t want to release their clientele without a warrant, and _nimble guy_ wasn’t enough to go on.

Malcolm approached the gatherings differently, explaining he was looking for a guy with really cool moves. A guy who liked jumping roof to roof, scaling fire escapes, flipping and diving back to the ground.

But that fit a lot of people. Proud of their work, if he could show them a YouTube video, they could help him out.

They didn’t have the killer on camera. And reverse-combing YouTube to find a traceur with a backpack in New York was a haystack too big to climb out of. He suggested Tech Services, yet Gil warned a watch was the best they could do. They needed to narrow the field.

* * *

They had gone from three pawns to nothing at all. A missing persons come human trafficking case and an attempted murder had their attention split, Gil with Dani interrogating the trafficking suspect and JT with Malcolm canvasing the park where the attack had occurred. 

It wasn't just about seeing the park; it was also about finding what else was nearby. Shops, alleys, any spots that might have concealed the assailant or have cameras that captured the attack. Around the block, speaking with each tenant, and back.

Malcolm’s temple pulsed with a headache, and the more they walked around, the dizzier he felt. What were they looking for again?

“You’re dehydrated,” JT passed him a bottle of water. He hadn’t realized JT had led them back to the car.

He took a few sips and immediately bent over when his stomach rebelled.

"How are you puking water?" JT was dumbfounded. He didn't know what this guy could consistently keep down anymore.

Malcolm used the water to rinse his mouth instead. He’d try again in a bit.

"Bein' real - have you gotten your stomach checked?" JT asked, concerned something was wrong with his friend.

"It's my head,” Malcolm corrected. It was _always_ his head. And a combination of dietary restrictions that were easier left unsaid.

“From the fall?” There weren't any visible signs left.

“No.”

"Does it usually last this....long?" JT tried to get more information without crossing into prying.

"No."

“Should have you over - Tally will feed you,” he assured. Tally would draw him under her wing, talking him into trying anything she made. And all her meals were delicious.

“I’d like that.” Malcolm smiled, warmed that he was being welcomed. “But I’ll take a raincheck until my stomach calms down.”

“Okay. You let me know when.” JT clapped his back. “Seriously, man - let us know if there’s anything we can do.”

Malcolm braved the water again, holding it in.

* * *

Every day Malcolm left with three pawns still tacked to the murder board, the nightmares got worse. Pig skin was replaced with what he only realized now must have been human flesh peeking through pieces of a dismembered, old coat. His father’s hands not only gripping his, but also holding him around the stomach, stopping him from squirming as he tried to twist away. Forcing cutting onto him with each firm slide of the gleaming blade. 

For all the chloroform his father gave him to forget, it wasn’t lasting. Bits and pieces kept pouring out on either side of the blade. Memories of every time a killer had tried to be made.

He put away his chess set, turned off the lights in his weapons cabinets, and covered them with makeshift shades.

* * *

Gil had spent years getting accustomed to interpreting Bright's tells. Coming in early, sitting away from the group, behaving as if everything was fine. Ducking his head, fiddling displacing energy.

Gil met him with tea at his desk before he could hide his hand trembling. “Do you want to come into my office?” he asked. “It’s quiet. You can take a minute.”

“No, I’m fine.” He smiled, losing his hand in his pocket.

“What’s on your mind?” Though he suspected, what wasn't?

“Are they the killer’s pawns? Or someone else’s?” he pondered. Their troubles lay in linking the victims beyond similar deaths. They were all single, no local next of kin, with only coincidental common purchases on their credit card statements. Tracking their behaviors was entirely reliant on text messages, email, and calendar appointments. Tedious and labor intensive.

“I thought you were helping JT,” Gil tested. Staying on directed course was not his strong suit.

“I am.” He tipped his hand from side to side. “It’s not like you don’t want us working the other case too.”

“Would like you sleeping too,” he reminded, noting the ever-present dark half moons under his eyes.

“We don’t always get what we want,” Malcolm snipped and immediately rubbed his forehead. “Sorry, Gil.”

“Please. Use the office. If you want to kick me out, talk pawn theories, or hell, whatever, come on in.” Do _something_ that doesn’t involve a tailspin.

“Thanks, Gil.”

* * *

Tarring was rough under Malcolm’s feet, doing a number on his shoes.

Stride, scuff, stride, scuff, turn. Stride, scuff, stride, scuff, turn. Stride, scuff - _Gil? No._ \- stride, scuff, turn.

Trembling had grown to a steady shake since he last saw him. "What can I do?" _Dammit_ the office, not the roof. He swore the kid didn’t follow instructions to get a rise out of him.

Malcolm shook his head in doubt, not able to focus on finding an answer.

The letter opener from Malcolm’s desk was to pull apart his research. Not for cutting, not for drawing any blood at all, yet the fire from the handle had sent him running for distance, hurtling up the stairs to the roof. Gil had hastily followed after him, the only one of the team on the floor.

Stride, scuff - bam! He slammed his hands on the ledge. “No, I won’t do it!” he hollered, leaning his face over the ledge enough to catch the breeze. His upper body shook under the weight on his wrists, unsure of where to go, what to do.

“Malcolm?” Gil approached carefully.

Gil’s arm reached across his chest to try to pull him back, yet the intrusion fired a jolt that dropped him to the rough surface, shoulders knocking against the brick. Breaths rushed through him, flexing his hands, curling into himself to keep the command from coming forward. _Take the knife, my boy_.

Gil’s second approach was blocked with raised hands, palms begging him for space. He was already split open, the blade couldn’t cut anything more. Gil stayed at the ready, unbridled fear marring Malcolm’s face.

The third, Gil had barely knelt beside him when Malcolm slumped into him, seeking one of his oldest forms of safety. Each breath pulled in the warmth of cinnamon. Fingers clasped the back of his neck, offering comfort. “You’re safe,” Gil promised, his voice steady.

Gil did all he could to hold him close, vibrations rattling his coat from that persistent, awful shaking. Breaths entered the air in cold crisps, the white flag of surrender precariously waving.

Malcolm reached for a voice, tired from the phantom’s grind. “My father’s trying to get me to hold a knife,” he explained, but it did little to shed light on his agitation.

“Can I take you inside?” Gil asked. Somewhere he didn’t have to worry about edge proximity and how easy it would be for an accident to happen in panic.

“Get Dani,” Malcolm requested.

* * *

Gil’s text said, “meet me on the stairs with Bright’s coat,” and she didn’t know what she’d find. “Go down the block and get some tea,” Gil shared for Dani’s benefit, looking between them. “Take as long as you need.”

Toeing out into the light, secrets weren’t really secrets these days. Not that they were ever hiding anyway.

A throng of reporters congregated to the side of the precinct, reporting the latest on their unfound killer. Which was nothing new, the spiel on repeat. Dani ignored them, their conversation an unintelligible buzz against the sounds of the city.

"As the surgeon's son, what do you have to say about his commentary on the chessman?” a voice reached for him. But they hadn’t shared the calling cards with the press.

"What made you want to jump?" another taunted. He wouldn’t - he didn’t -

"I-I didn't do what they're saying,” he stammered, ducking his chin to his chest.

“What are you talking about?” she asked, trying to piece together what was going on in his head. 

The more they descended the front steps, the more distressed he was getting. She stopped him with a hand on his arm. “How about I take you home? Your favorite tea is there.”

He shook his head, not wanting to face it. “My place?” she suggested instead.

“Okay.”

She ushered him around the back of the precinct, hiding him away in her car.

* * *

When she got past the fear of his curious gaze, some piece of Dani’s mind had glamorized bringing Malcolm to her apartment as a thing of joy. Coming back from an evening in the park, necking before she could get the door closed behind them, tipping over the end of the sofa or even onto the floor. Extending her haven to him, hiding out until work called.

Reality was more sedated. He’d gone quiet in the car, his breath fogging the window. Cold pinked his cheeks, his ears from the walk in, and he stood at the door, eyes surveying the room’s contents again, lost.

“Give me your coat, your jacket,” she coaxed. His fingers undid the buttons methodically, and she hung them on the rack behind the door with her jacket.

She guided him to the couch and cocooned him in her favorite flannel blanket. Brought him tea from the stash on the counter, yet he didn’t show much interest. Nestled behind him against the back of the couch, she wound her arms around him. The only thing that seemed to help was to hold him tight and wait until fear dimmed to grey.

“I don’t think work’s helping anymore,” he admitted, his voice filled with exhaustion from the weight he was bearing. Awake, asleep, all he could feel was phantom knives.

Gabrielle wanted him to think about flexing his hours, reducing his stressors and managing exposure to potential triggers. He clung to his family, needing days he was accustomed to, routines of banter and profiling. It was too easy to tip into avoidance if he left, get locked in his mind where the demons never slept. But the more he stayed, the worse his patterns were getting.

“What do you mean?” She wanted to understand, do anything she could to ease what he’d describe as Tuesday, she’d describe as suffering.

“Case is mixed in my nightmares of him. My father,” he clarified.

Had he gone to see him? He’d been avoiding Claremont. “It’s not good for you.”

“No.” Many aspects of his job were contraindicated, but a warm comfort came from the flame.

“I’m worried you’re not sleeping or eating,” she continued tentatively. She didn’t know if it was the right time for the discussion, yet when was?

“Me too,” he revealed in a voice so quiet she questioned whether she’d heard.

“Can we go to the doctor?” she asked, rubbing his chest with her thumb. A long shot, she knew, but he needed something to get through this. Waiting it out wasn’t cutting it.

“I just want to try to sleep.” As soon as the statement left his mouth, he realized, _shit_. It was a dumb decision to ask for the escape of her place. “I can’t sleep here. I need my restraints.”

“I’ll take you home,” she assured.

She drank the tea herself, and they bundled up to go back out the door.

* * *

Wanting to sleep and sleeping were two _very_ different things. Malcolm’s body drooped with exhaustion, yet he was still wide awake with Dani tucked in beside him. She’d promised to get out of the bed as soon as he’d fallen asleep, yet the moment hadn’t come. Laying in his bed wasn’t something they did; she wondered if her presence alone was making things worse.

Dani’s cellphone buzzed on the nightstand, lighting up the dark. “Gil’s calling again,” Malcolm read.

“It’s about the stakeout with JT.” Dani didn’t move to get it.

“Go.”

“I really don’t feel okay leaving you,” she admitted. It had been a day, and she wanted to hold him until he could finally get some relief.

“Understood. I’m still going to ask you to.” He rubbed his hand over hers. “Go work. This is just babysitting.”

She propped herself up on her arm, looking him in the eye. “This isn’t _just_ anything.”

“Please,” he tried to persuade her. “All that’s happening here is sleep.”

Damn him for using her own logic. Doubt crept back - maybe she was making things worse. “Anything at all, Bright - you call me.”

She held him for a bit longer and slipped out, calling Gil that she was on the way.

* * *

A call for a DOA came in before they had a chance to go home, immediately routed to them because of the presence of a chess piece. Gil sent JT and Dani ahead to the scene.

“I’ll pick you up,” Gil texted, already on the way to Malcolm’s loft.

But Malcolm wasn’t outside hopping from one foot to another eagerly waiting for him. Wasn’t just inside the door bouncing and sheltering from the cold. Wasn’t nursing a warm drink in the kitchen.

“Bright?” he called.

“Upstairs,” he responded. Yet the voice was weak, lacking any energy for the expedition to the scene.

Gil took the stairs two at a time and found him on the floor of the office, squeezing a stress ball in his hand, _Arms and Armor_ pushed away from his side. He hadn't even dressed yet. “Got a little woozy,” he explained, not moving to get up.

“I can’t take you with me like this.” Gil produced a hard candy from his pocket and handed it to him. “Start on this. Getting you some water.”

He unwrapped the candy and pressed it against the roof of his mouth. Gil quickly returned with a glass of water, and he managed a small sip to placate him. Where were they going?

“You wanna tell me the last time you’ve eaten something that didn’t come from me, JT, or Dani?” Gil asked, at his wit’s end.

His eyes traced the lines between the slats of wood. “No.”

“No because you don’t think I’ll like the answer or no because you don’t remember?” His hands anchored into his hips.

“Both?” His path stopped in the corner of the room, so he started over again.

“Today’s it, kid,” Gil admonished. “When we’re done at the scene, you’re going to the doctor.”

Malcolm abandoned the wood and met Gil’s eyes. “I can't go."

Gil’s hand reached the middle of his forehead, and he paced back toward the door. His kid would be the death of him. “You're sure as hell - "

"To the scene,” Malcolm clarified, and Gil turned toward him again. “I can't go.”

"He left a king,” Gil dangled knowledge of the new piece of evidence to lure him.

"I can't get off the floor." The stress ball oozed between his fingers, spilling out his frustrations. The two stared at each other, contemplating a next action.

The product of his enablement leaned against the wall. Hell, they all had a hand in this. He still felt responsible for his kid. He thought time and support would help him improve, not end up like this.

"Hold on to me," Gil instructed, reaching out his arm. Gil pulled him to his feet, yet his legs wobbled underneath him. "You're going over the shoulder, kid," he announced as he completed the action.

Malcolm stared down each step of life’s toughest secret: when to quit.

Gil made quick work out of getting him outside and into the car. “Bright’s sick,” he texted JT and Dani. “You’re on your own for a bit.”

* * *

Frederik Gustav-Dumas lay in repose in an alleyway between a nondescript battened storefront and a vape shop, seemingly out for a nap and never came back. Between his folded hands lay a king, fallen on its side.

“Where’s the rest of the royal court?” JT commented.

Dani shook her head, not feeling the banter. She’d been texting with Bright, checking in fairly regularly all night - what had happened?

The scene was very clean, the victim’s wounds not immediately visible. Their killer had had more time again. “This one’s different,” Dani observed.

“Yet still the same,” Edrisa interjected. “This man got clubbed.” She showed a photo of the side of his neck. “And not the good kind.”

“How long’s he been here?” JT asked.

“All night,” Edrisa shared. “Need a bit longer out here. You’re gonna wanna go inside.” She pointed at the boarded up building. “He’s an antiques dealer. Shop’s in there.”

“How much you wanna bet those antiques are weapons?” JT posed. He’d wager his paycheck.

Entering Gustav-Dumas’ antique shop revealed a primary location, a table in the back that had caught his fall when he had been hit. A rear door was unlocked and a second story window half-open. Where records were sparse at other shops, Gustav-Dumas’ were meticulous. Every penny in or out was documented. On paper.

But the whole shop was boarded up. This wasn’t a place folks strolled in from the street, looking for the weekend’s finds. There was little inventory, only pieces that had not yet charted their way from point a to point b. The walls weren’t encroaching with every variation of trinket he could find. Something wasn’t right.

Dani and JT stared at the break in the case they had wanted for a couple weeks, and Bright wasn’t there. It came at the cost of one more man’s life, yet they were confident they might now have the missing link to get them to the killer.

“You good if I take a minute?” Dani asked JT, still waiting for Edrisa and her techs to finish processing around the victim.

“Sure.”

She ducked under the crime scene tape, sitting on stairs out in front of the vape shop that descended down to a bar. She pressed a contact in her phone and waited, her elbows resting on her knees.

“Hi,” Malcolm’s voice answered after a few rings.

“Hey you,” she forced herself to stay calm, swallowing _you were supposed to call me_.

“Did you solve it yet?” He stuck to the usual, more interested in where he could be than where he was.

“Not quite.” She moved past his diversion. “How are you?”

“They started me on an IV, and Gil’s got a bet on whether the next discussion is going to be sedatives.” Gil frowned beside him. No aspect of this was a game.

They were at the hospital? “Should I come now?” she asked, responsibilities torn between mate and checkmate.

“No, we’re just waiting,” Malcolm declined.

“Someone didn’t come to work today, so I’m out here covering for him,” she teased, trying to cover her agita.

Malcolm laughed. “You should give that fool a hard time.”

“Oh, I will.” Why didn’t he _call_? She broached the topic he hadn’t mentioned. “What’s wrong?”

“They’re not going to let me out today.” Not at all the answer to her question.

“Bright,” she warned, wanting the story straight.

“They’re going to give me a sedative I don’t want to take, so I can get some sleep I can’t get any other way, so I can try some food I have no desire to eat, tomorrow,” he spouted in run-on, frustrated he’d let this get to the point that he wasn’t in his loft in his pajamas, sharing a meal.

“Dammit, Bright,” she snipped, concern getting the better of her.

“Hey,” his voice dipped into soft, tenderly trying to communicate everything would be okay.

“I’m coming,” she decided, leaving no room for argument.

* * *

JT watched Dani compose herself along the walk back, her eyes moving from the ground to straight ahead, her shoulders straightening and stiffening her neck.

“How is he?” JT asked when Dani returned to his side.

“In the hospital. Cracking jokes,” she scoffed, grinding the toe of her boot into the blacktop.

“Hospital?” _Shit_. What was he, dead? 

“They’re just waiting at this point,” she relayed.

“Guy isn’t eating anything,” JT noted what they both knew.

“Yeah.” She wrung her hands. “Look, I’m gonna go trade with Gil. You okay here for a bit?”

“Yeah.” JT shared a knowing smile. “Go give him hell.”

* * *

Gil stepped out of the curtain to meet Dani in the hall. Strain puffed under his eyes, lived in the frown that remained on his face. “We’ve gotten as far as diet and nutrition.”

“Good luck to them.” Dani shook her head. “Where’d you find him?”

“Upstairs with a book. Couldn’t hold his own weight,” Gil recounted.

She never should have left him there. _Fuck_ , she should have brought him to the doctor. She sped chewing her gum, contemplating how she could have helped avoid the trip to the ER.

“They took a bunch of blood, and he says he’s fine,” Gil recapped. Who knew what that meant. He met her eyes, fatherly concern for the two of them equal to a hug holding her tight. “He’s all yours. Take care of our boy.”

She found him in a gown, bed partially raised, curled away from the curtain opening. “Hey you,” she said, figuring he was still awake and not wanting to spook him.

“Hey.” He started to turn over, yet she put her hand on his hip.

“Stay. I’ll come around.” He had his hand out reaching for her, and she took it, standing at his side. “You got pincushioned,” she noted, taking in a few small bruises on his arm.

“They had a hard time starting a line.” Prick after prick wasn’t painful, though it had led to someone else’s hands on him much longer than he’d wanted.

“What’s the verdict?” she asked.

“Life without parole,” he deadpanned.

“You wanna try again with a version that doesn’t make me want to swat you?” Patience for the runaround was far gone, back somewhere before Gil had brought him down from a stroll on the roof.

“Dehydrated, malnourished, and waiting on one more consult before I can take a nap.” Whatever the choice of words, things weren’t as fine as he insisted - he was in for a stay.

“Sounds like a vacation.” She smoothed his hair back and kissed his forehead.

“You didn’t have to come.” But he was glad she was there.

“Yeah, I did.” As if she wouldn’t. Dammit, he was… _important_. “Why didn’t you call?”

“Phone was downstairs.” Gil had collected it along with his coat.

She shook her head. Apparently she had missed a step in her instructions. At least she knew he hadn’t been up there too long based on when she had last texted him.

* * *

They went records spelunking, the tedium boxing the worry in Dani’s mind. She spent visiting hours with Malcolm, yet her hours before and after went to the precinct. The familiarity of friends.

“They all sold weapons replicas to Gustav-Dumas.” JT spread a series of invoices on the conference table. $300, $1100, $500.

“Thomas would have known they weren’t real,” Gil asserted. The man was around the authentic ones every day.

“Right, but he wasn’t buying,” JT pointed out. “It’s not clear whether their sales had malintent.”

“Who was Gustav-Dumas selling to?” Gil asked.

“Three maces, five war hammers, one morning star, five clubs, two batons,” Dani kept reading from the list until Gil’s hand indicated to roll it along, “to Milton Cartwright.” They had the order, yet not the final bill of sale.

“Were our victims the only sellers to Gustav-Dumas for that ticket?” Gil questioned. He needed to know how many more people were potentially in danger.

“No. There are a dozen more names I cross-referenced,” Dani explained. “But why would he do this?”

JT rubbed his fingers together. “Talk to your other half about how much antique weapons cost when they’re authentic.” He laid a bank statement of the final sale’s transaction between them. $12 million.

“Bring him in,” Gil directed. It was the strongest link they had to the killer.

* * *

“Did you solve it now?” were the first words out of Malcolm’s mouth when she walked through his door. Two days in to what the doctors said would be a few day stay, he perked with enthusiasm every time she came by.

She shook her head, moving to stand beside him. “Close.”

He had landed on the door side of a two-patient room. He was sitting up in bed, sucking on an ice pop. “They let me have this.” He pointed at the Pedialyte pop label, and put it back in his mouth.

“Your mouth is blue,” she observed. He looked like he’d indulged in one of his suckers. Something she hadn’t seen in…awhile.

“It’s raspberry.” That entirely natural blue raspberry.

“You seem chipper.” She ran her fingers through his hair. It lacked the softness she was used to, his normal routine on the shelf at home.

“600 milliliters so far. I’m floating,” he referenced what felt like frequent trips to the bathroom for him.

“Thanks for the update on your pee,” she teased.

“All I want to do is go home.” And eating enough input to produce sufficient output was the only way they would let him go.

She couldn’t offer him that today. “Premium broth and crackers are waiting for you out in the hall.”

He nodded.

“How are the nightmares?”

“There.” His hand brushed the topic away. “Case?”

“Food first, then I’ll tell you.”

* * *

Final papers delivered from the lawyer revealed an estate valued at $50 million. Did that mean his mother's life was worth $25 million? His father's $25 million? Or did his tirades or her benders tip the balance?

One diving accident, and he was _rich_. More money than he could spend at any one place, on any one day. Money he hadn’t even known existed. Money that regardless how much his mother erased him or father filleted him, he'd trade to have his parents again.

"Parkour was gang activity," his mother had told him. She didn't understand that pushing his limits running, twisting, and diving made him feel more alive than anything else ever could. That his gang was a wonderful crew who looked out for him.

She wanted him to play chess. His interest lay with the box, in the back of the closet, buried under D&D books and old shoes. He spent the in between outside freerunning or at the comic book shop, waiting out her latest choice in booze.

In his thirties, he supposed it was a bit late to keep dwelling on half a lifetime ago. But the memories held him in a stunting grip thrashing every part of his life, not letting go. The news his parents were gone didn’t make their shared past any less so.

Purchases started with clothes, shoes, upgrades to his main electronics. Display cases empty, save a few figurines. Trips to conventions where he’d spend and spend to stock them full. Millions of dollars of antique weapons later, the hole left from their passing still didn't close.

It only exploded. Fake, he learned when he tried to trade for a war scythe. “Like in our games”, they laughed when he proudly removed a war hammer from his display case. Forgeries, they told him when he finally got them appraised. Too late, after the fact, half a life gone away.

The antique weapons dealer didn’t have an online presence, but he was easy to follow. He snuck into the antiques shop through the window, snapped records of the purchases. Researched where the sellers lived, pulled photos from social media. Waited and followed, slid, climbed, jumped, and tracked.

Swung and slammed with thundering cracks -

But his parents didn’t come back.

Half his mom - or was it his dad - gone.

Gone.

* * *

They sat on Dani’s couch, Malcolm still sipping the remnants of soup, his thoughts wandering. “Was my father abusive? Toward me?” he added, articulating the soundtrack in his mind.

She’d grown accustomed to his seemingly random tangents, but she stilled a moment to produce a response, not wanting to be insensitive. From everything he had told her, “Yes.”

Her eyes questioned where the train of thought had come from. “Something Gabrielle said. I just…didn’t really think of it like that. Or at least not in a while.” He ran his thumb over his fingers, recalling the very long list of qualities he had indicated would be signs of abuse for a case, yet he had balked evaluating himself. “Other people use that term when they’ve been through much worse.”

“Doesn’t change what you’ve been through,” she said firmly, reinforcing her statement by squeezing his knee.

He shrugged, the steam exhausted, not really having anything else to say. They shared the silence, Malcolm finishing his meal.

He pulled her to him, resting them both against the arm of the couch, snuggled under the flannel blanket. “We’re gonna have to leave here sometime to go get you groceries,” she poked, drawing him out of his head. He’d brought restraints to anchor him to her pull-out couch, which delayed the inevitable: he would need to go home.

“I don’t know what to get,” he admitted. “It’s silly, but it stresses me out a bit.”

“I’ll help,” she assured.

“That might mean you make the whole list,” he warned. Taste was elusive.

She shrugged - if it helped him eat, it didn’t really matter.

“I’ve been wondering something,” he spoke, his breath warm against her ear.

“What’s that?” She folded their hands together.

“Can you tell me how you collected the paintings?” The long form version - what made them special to her? He listened as her voice lulled him to a welcome place of comfort that arose from her presence.

* * *

They sat in Gil’s office behind closed doors, the formal setting bringing Malcolm the comfort of composure. “You know about triggers?” Malcolm asked.

“Yes,” Gil confirmed. His NYPD mug rested between his fingers, giving him coffee to sip when Malcolm’s first day back might warrant whiskey.

“Sometimes what we see on the job is a trigger for me,” Malcolm explained. His mind looked back through the outline he and Gabrielle had talked about.

“Like what?” Anything to do with his father, he knew. But the blackout and the roof didn’t have any obvious connections to him.

“A box, a blade, a phrase - but it could be anything.” His fingers ran through his hair, contemplating infinite scenarios of sights, sounds, touches, tastes, and smells that could resurface his trauma. “It’s not really something I can predict, and when it happens, I need to be able to walk away.”

Gil nodded. A _runner_ , Jackie had called him when he’d end up out walking down the street instead of tucked under his sheets. A fighter, sensitive, courageous…she had given him a lot of classifications.

His hands folded into his lap and back out. “I know it can be scary to watch - it feels scary - but let me come to you.”

“Okay.” 

“I’m trying to get better at this taking a break thing.” Malcolm waved his hands, searching for the foreign concept. “I’m going to try a reach out approach,” he parroted Gabrielle’s words overly formally. “If I need someone to take a break with me, I’ll knock, or tap, or something.”

“Office is always here,” and he immediately corrected, “I’m always here.” He hadn’t expected the day to start with progress.

“I know.” Malcolm’s smile found the floor before lifting his eyes. “Thank you.”

He couldn't change the hand he'd been dealt, yet Gabrielle urged him his hands would shape his future. Slowly, tentatively, he was starting to listen.

* * *

Twelve million dollars, the bank statements had revealed, for what had amounted to less than twenty thousand dollars in forgeries. “They took my mom,” or “they took my dad,” Cartwright had said several times throughout interrogation. A meandering conversation with glimpses of a long slide into psychosis.

A search warrant brought them to Cartwright’s house, another relic from his parents. Not the apartment he lived in, but the home he couldn’t relinquish.

The farce stared at them from a basement weapons cabinet, each piece standing upright, dried blood prominently presented.

“He made them real,” Malcolm said in wonderment. A variety of other weapons were relegated to a bench, not yet fit for display. “How many more victims had he planned?”

“Too many,” Dani recalled hours of work she had spent finding other links.

“He made a mistake going for the king,” JT noted.

“We spooked him - he couldn’t get caught without ending the game,” Malcolm explained.

“Creepy as hell,” JT commented, leaving the space. He’d had enough dealing with Cartwright’s version of deranged.

Case stricken from the murder board, _Arms and Armor_ went back into Malcolm’s desk, tucked in with research on _The Surgeon_.

* * *

They sat on the stairs to the precinct, Dani’s hand on Malcolm’s back while he counted through breathing. The sun warmed his pants, balancing the chill without his coat. “I’m getting pretty used to this,” he said, the tightness loosening in his chest and panic fading from his face.

Illuminated secrets, like asking for help didn’t need to be a source of shame. Words he knew, but habits were hard to change.

When he wanted support, his knuckles knocked on the edge of her desk, letting her know he needed to get away. He disappeared many times without anyone, yet when he reached out, she followed him to his chosen spot, just sitting until his voice returned. 

“So, I want to make you something,” he explained. “It’s going to take a few extra groceries.”

It was the first he had input on his grocery list in a while. Usually he told her to add what she wanted, and the list she had created for him online was auto-scheduled for delivery every other week. “We can go after work,” she offered.

“And I want to draw you that bath you’ve wanted since basically day one,” he continued, visualizing her features relaxed into the tub.

“But who’s counting.”

“And whatever else you may want.” He looked to her eyes, sharing a quirk of a smile.

“You.” She shared a smile in return.

“That can be arranged.”

He squeezed her knee, letting her know he was ready, and they walked together back into the precinct.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
